


Salt

by Peach_oniisan



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Blasphemy, Day 3: Confession, Day 4: Touch, Eruri Week, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Masturbation, Prayer, Priest Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4503744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peach_oniisan/pseuds/Peach_oniisan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not a common time for confession, but Father Smith wasn’t the kind to refuse a soul in need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt

Past the seventh hour, Erwin sits surrounded by frankincense and copal; his ebony seat faded under layers and layers of old lacquer, the velvet cushioning worn from overuse. It is the end of the day and the last vestiges of sunlight are disappearing behind tall windows and the gauzy shroud of incense. Only a glimmer of colour filters through the peaceful faces of the saints to illuminate the interior of the church.

“Peace be upon you this evening, child.”

Not a common time for confession, but Father Smith wasn’t the kind to refuse a soul in need. When he saw the figure kneeling behind the curtain there was no choice for him but to take his place on the other side of the screen and listen.

A century’s worth of whispered secrets soaked deep into the bones of the humble confessional.  

Erwin’s hands, soft and big-boned, sit folded atop his lap. A sign of humility, for under the Lord he is but a servant. Silence hangs heavy in the air and he waits. He keeps his ear attentive and his heart open, like he was taught. He prays for the guilt in this pained creature’s conscience to be lifted so he can speak of his sin and be forgiven.

No words come for a long time.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned.”

But when the sinner speaks, his voice sends a tremble through the wooden boards. It vibrates with the timbre of those still on the edge of manhood, resonant of a tainted innocence. A lamb of God, thoroughly lost.

“How have you sinned, my son?”

From behind the screen comes only breathing, until that voice emerges again from the silence, coarsened from something Erwin can’t quite place.

“God knows my sin.”

A tone reeking of unrepentance hangs on the boy’s words and Erwin shudders, unsure if he is imagining it all in his growing sense of discomfort.

Against his better judgement, he steals a glance through the grid; flowers cast in bronze entwine with the cross to cover the window which separates them. Between their stems he sees a lace of amber light falling over dark hair. A pair of grey eyes look up under thick eyelashes and all Erwin can think of is the ocean; the foamy depths of a sea enraged, ready to swallow him and all of creation.

A cold shiver climbs between Erwin’s shoulders and he looks away. After a long pause, the next sentence heard is barely a whisper:

“Would you like to know too, father?”

Erwin swallows. He keeps his back straight, the rosary held tight between his fingers. The cheap wooden beads dig inside the flesh of his palm and he will be finding their markings later, next to the white crescents of his own nails. He thinks of the wine waiting on top of his desk, a small reward he promised himself for after the sunset. He thinks of the work he still has to do, next morning’s mass and the safety of the meanly furnished room he calls home.

“God is merciful,” is the first thing he says. Repent and you shall be forgiven; that was the promise carried throughout mankind’s torturous existence, but Erwin’s throat is running dry and his thoughts are left unfinished.

The boy wets his lips behind the screen and something stirs in the priest’s chest. “On a summer morning,” he begins, “I coveted my fellow man.”

“What was it that you wanted from him?”

“Everything.”

God knows his sin. God knows all, and He remembers. Erwin raises his hand to do the sign of the cross and finds his own forehead damp with sweat, for he remembers too; a bruised purple sky just before dawn, a few lonely stars shivering and beneath them a crochet of white waves, crushing around the outline of a young man.

_Oh God…oh God…_

“He stood and looked at me as I got out of the sea,” the boy says and Erwin feels an ache throb deep inside him, “I like to swim before the sun rises. I thought I was alone.”

But he wasn’t. Erwin was on his way to the bishop’s house that morning, his copy of the Scripture tucked under one arm next to a box of sweets. He had stopped then to watch the sunrise, a prayer to the Lord already on his lips, when he saw.

“But I wanted him to look.”

Erwin had hastened his step down the road, the few precious seconds of staring at the boy’s naked body already burned in his eyes even as he hurried away. On that same night he had stayed up to pray for salvation, for forgiveness. He told himself again and again that there was nothing carnal in his desire; only an honest wish, to see that youth with the scarred shoulders and the inked arms bathed in the light of the Lord. He prayed and prayed in fervour, communion cross held to his chest.

He didn’t dare undress himself for bed, didn’t dare confront the sight of his own flesh in heat. After three days of prayers unanswered he let his hand wander downwards, beneath a blond nest of hair, to feel the wetness around the flushed tip of his cock. Relief had come to him for a single moment, before the fever of shame rose to his cheeks and he stopped, mortified.

“What should I do, father? How should I repent for my sin?”

Erwin didn’t know. The cassock tightened around him, his collar suddenly a white snake, and within the enclosed space of the confessional he was suffocating. The sun was already gone from the sky. Sitting alone in the dark he was not worthy to give advice. Not when his own air tasted of fornication. 

From the other side of the grid, he hears a shuffle but before he can step out, he is pushed back inside the confessional with enough force to knock him painfully against the ebony wall. A pair of strong, small hands find their way around the woollen fabric, then into his hair, and all Erwin can see in the dark is a grey storm.

“Say three Hail Marys and count the rosary beads before bed,” he finally says, between a gasp and a whimper, “and fast an equal number of days until the sin no longer takes root in your heart.” In his mind he has already assigned himself the same penance and more.

“I don’t want His forgiveness,” the boy says and Erwin could swear he saw the ghost of a smile, “only yours.”

Lithe fingers wrap around his collar and pull it away, the brand of his devotion to God thrown carelessly onto the floor. The boy leans forward and Erwin closes his eyes. Behind burning lids he remembers the sight of milky flesh under the first light of dawn; a painted canvas of skin stretched over rippling muscle; the gentle curve of an ear; the shaved nape of the boy’s neck, begging for a touch as it dripped with salt water.

The stolen kiss was soft, chaste almost. Or so Erwin would think if he hadn’t already tasted inferno on the plump warmth of it. He holds his breath as a wet tongue parts his lips, only to take in the lingering flavour of wine and leave him parched and filled with longing.

“For this and all my sins, I am truly sorry.”

He was lying. But Erwin doesn’t dare open his mouth, for the fabric of his own trousers is shamefully wet.

“My name is Levi. Remember me in your prayers, father.”

Father Smith has no breath left to answer.

The candles flicker and Levi is gone, leaving behind him nothing but ashes and the faint scent of sulphur.


End file.
